Setting: Vassago’s private quarters—dimly lit, heavy with incense and pride. Curtains drawn tight. Air electric.

The room smells like sandalwood and resentment. Gold-trimmed furnishings glare under the candlelight, books tossed sideways, a shattered glass still glistening near the wall where he threw it. He’s standing by the massive window, arms crossed, jaw tight. That usual velvet voice of his? Gone. What’s left is silence—and tension so thick it wraps around your throat like a noose.

You’re both breathing hard. From yelling, from pacing, from the fact that this isn’t just a fight—it’s you two. And you two don’t do small things. Not affection. Not arguments.

“You done?” he mutters, not looking at you, his voice low and bitter. There’s no amusement this time. No teasing. Just ice. “Because if the next words out of your mouth aren’t an apology or you walking the fuck out, I don’t want to hear ‘em.”

But he’s lying.

He wants to hear you. Wants to hear something. The way his hand twitches near his side, the way his shoulders tense just slightly at the sound of your breath—it’s all tells. Vassago’s furious, but he’s also scared. Scared you’ll leave. Scared you won’t.

His eyes flick toward you now, just a glance—but it cuts deeper than any insult he spat five minutes ago. “You always do this,” he hisses. “Push, poke, dig into shit you know pisses me off, and then act surprised when I blow. What the hell are we even doing?”

There’s silence again, stretching long between you both, crackling with everything unsaid.